


hope the wound heals but it never does

by scribblemyname



Category: Fate/Zero
Genre: Alternate Universe (kind of), F/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-Canon, Scars, Talking all around the massive elephant in the room, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-17 03:59:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13068654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemyname/pseuds/scribblemyname
Summary: He cannot stop a king from speaking forever. He cannot help but think, this is war. It's all right if you were the one who took my life. I'm even glad of it.





	hope the wound heals but it never does

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Heart_of_Targness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heart_of_Targness/gifts).



He almost thinks he remembers something, like ghost pain in the scar through his chest. He rubs his fingers across the way it itches, and Arturia's hand covers his, her expression pained.

He only smiles, falling still beneath her touch, and enjoying the warmth of this simple moment.

She opens her mouth as if to speak, and he leans over to cover it with his in an effort to hold onto the peace and the comfort, to stave off the disquieting stirring in his gut that he doesn't want to know the answers to what scars haunt him.

Arturia isn't exactly the kind to let him silence her, and he knows it, so he's relentless, kissing her until she's breathless, until she finally winds her arms around his shoulders and lets it go for the time being, for another round of warmth and closeness and pressing her body against his in a dance even older than war.

"Diarmuid," she says at last, her voice quiet as their breath returns to them in the aftermath.

He can see it in her face and her eyes, the same look that glimmers there when she mentions Lancelot, when she stops mentioning Lancelot. This is my fault, say those sorrowful eyes, says the furrowed expression on her brow.

He cannot stop a king from speaking forever. He cannot help but think, this is war. It's all right if you were the one who took my life. I'm even glad of it. He reaches out and brushes the soft wisps of hair back from her eyes and treasures saying her name softly in response, "Arturia."

"I never meant—"

But that isn't so. They both meant to fight honorably to perhaps the only glorious end they would be allowed.

She seems to struggle for a way to finish before finally resting her hand gently against the scar. Her hands are warm and firm and calloused and everything a warrior king's should be. "Do you remember?" she asks him in a voice as firm as that hand.

But he doesn't really. There's something there, a phantom of a memory beyond his reach. The Throne of Heroes shouldn't have even retained the scar, and he's not sure he should ask Arturia how it is he remembers as much as he does.

"No," he answers simply. It's easier than wading verbally into the quagmire that is their situation now.

She sinks down against him, shoulders slumping in something near defeat, brows drawing together in displeasure and uncertainty.

"I'm not even supposed to remember you," he finally says, unable to bear this defeated look on the King of Knights. He touches her cheek, watches her green eyes shift to hold him in her gaze as she listens. "I'm glad that I do," he says. "Dueling the King of Knights, fighting by your side, was an honor and a pleasure. For whatever reason the Throne has not taken this from me, it is enough."

He had loved Grainne once before, chosen to love her because of his honor to the geas that had been placed upon him, because it was the fate he had been bestowed. But this was an honor he had never even aspired to, that would not have been possible in life and should not have been possible even here, but he could hardly wish for more than this, such a woman as Arturia, and one who chose him without being under his curse.

(He could wish for one more thing, but that could wait until he was summoned from the Throne again and granted the right to serve loyally, to serve honorably. It was a hope that had not yet been doused in his heart.)

Arturia listened to all of this intently, brows drawn together, a frown set on her face. Her hand stayed on his scar as she stared at it. His words fell away to silence and he waited, willing her to accept what they had been given, a gift greater than any he had expected.

He expected some firm signal of her final feelings on the matter, but received only a soft sigh, heavier than the burden carried by an ordinary person, one with the weight carried by one who was a king. She closed her eyes briefly, eyelashes fluttering, the pain never quite leaving her face. She curled up against his chest and said no more, allowing him to hold her more closely against him.

Her breath was soft against her fingertips, forming the impression of her hand as a tangible sensation against his heart.

"Arturia," he said at last.

"Yes?" she asked, voice soft and warm in a way he had already come to love.

"Do you regret it?" he asked, knowing even as he asked that he shouldn't, knowing that he wouldn't like the answer, but needing to know anyway. Was it worth it?

Such bitterness colored her voice as she answered, "Yes." She bit down on the word, teeth audibly clenching.

He took a deep breath, considered how to ask further, then settled for, "Did you win the Grail?" He had never really expected less of her, for all he'd made it his own aim for the sake of his Master.

But she shook her head against his chest, hair brushing against his mouth. "No one won." The bitterness remained.

"Neither of us won. And yet, we are here." Diarmuid wondered then, whose wish could grant him this pleasure?

She raised her head and looked at him with wide eyes, bright and uncertain. "Is this what you would have wished?"

He had been granted his wish with his summoning, he had thought, the opportunity to serve his lord and master faithfully, with honor and all his strength. Had he been granted the right to request anything of the Grail, would he have asked for this?

"I don't suppose it would have occurred to me," he admitted. A failure of imagination he would be sure to rectify should the opportunity arise again.

Arturia's gaze fell again to the scar on his chest as she ran her fingers across it, tracing the shape with an unreadable expression. She leaned down and kissed him there, soft and light as leaves or feathers brushing against his skin. The feeling was almost startling in its intensity, and he found himself gripping her tighter, barely refraining from crushing her against him.

"I wouldn't have wished it like this," she said, still quiet and low, but more thoughtful than resentful. She pressed her hand flat again and he covered her hand with his, a mirror of that first moment when their hands had met over the mark. "I would have wished it gone," she said. "I would have wished you healed and whole."

"And unscarred?" he asked. Diarmuid shook his head. "Never that, Arturia. We have earned the marks of battle." It was as familiar to him as the ache in his muscles and weariness in his flesh after a battle, the acknowledging of new scars.

"This was the mark of betrayal," she said, displeasure once again on her tongue.

"Then tell me no more," he said. He had known enough betrayal to last until the Throne of Heroes was dust and his spirit granted its final end. He had betrayed, he had been betrayed, and the only thing he could hold to now was, "I am glad to have met you. I am glad to be here now."

She stared at him, eyes on him at last and not his scar. She swallowed down some emotion she would doubtless not have expressed even if he hadn't asked her to abstain. "Yes," she said softly.


End file.
